


A Need for Speed

by kikowest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car Humor, Cute, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Learning to Drive, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Parenthood, Self-Indulgent, Teen OC, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:03:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14734877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kikowest/pseuds/kikowest
Summary: Guess that’s what happens when your whole family gets obliterated before you hit puberty. Five years later and I was stuck grinding through my learner’s permit on some country road with two monster hunters.





	A Need for Speed

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on Tumblr in September 2014. Posted to archive. Enjoy!

It was ugly. Not even “diamond in the rough” ugly. Just plain ugly. The ugliest Chrysler LeBaron I’d ever set eyes on. Beat down, rusted up, mismatched scrapyard metal, piece of shit ugly. You’d have never known it looking at Dean Winchester’s face, though. He stared at me from the passenger seat -- as tattered and torn as it was -- with a self-satisfied smile. This must have been what he’d been working on with Bobby. This shitty little car. 

My shitty little car now. Seventeen and just learning to drive. Guess that’s what happens when your whole family gets obliterated before you hit puberty. Five years later and I was stuck grinding through my learner’s permit on some country road with two monster hunters.

Dean had driven us out as far from the hotel as possible, taking weird turns and running parallel to a couple major highways. I’d thought we were just on a test run until he handed me the keys. You’d have thought he were gifting me with a BMW instead of the sad, little automobile that barely turned over.

In the backseat, Sam’s expression was a measured mixture of annoyance and concern. He kept adjusting his seat belt -- fidgeting with those long legs. Whatever bench seat Dean and Bobby had slapped in was so old that it probably had cushion springs. Something kept squeaking every time he shifted his weight. If Dean noticed the nonverbal criticism, he didn’t seem to care. 

“Alright. Now, put it in drive,” he told me. “Then let off the brake nice and easy…”

“I know how to start a car, Dean,” I snapped. Did what I was told, though. The LeBaron wheezed and grumbled, but started chugging along as I fed it some gas. “You sure this thing isn’t gunna fall apart?”

“It’s fine,” said Dean. “It’s a car. It moves. What’re you so pissy about, anyway? You think I was gunna let you drive my Baby?” The look on my face must have given him his answer, because he snorted -- incredulous. “Yeah. No. Not gunna happen, Kiddo. Bobby and I both went over this hunk of junk. It’s a tank. Besides, we can’t keep doin’ rentals. Shit’s expensive.”

“I hope you put airbags in, at least,” Sam muttered.

Dean glanced back at his brother -- mouth pinched. “Did you need to be here for this?”

_ Duh, Dean. Somebody’s gotta be the calm, collected, voice of reason _ , said Sam’s unwavering stare.

“I’m moral support,” said Sam. He gave a wry smile.

I was happy he was with us, though. The last time I’d gone out with _ just _ Dean, he’d pestered and prodded until we were flying down the interstate at 80 mph. In Chicago. In the rain. We’d rented a Ford Windstar, which you’d think would be helpful since it was built like a boat, but it really just turned out to be deuce-dropping scary to try to drive. I was convinced I was about two seconds away from taking us both out in a fiery explosion of metal and gasoline. When someone asked Sam how his brother kicked the bucket _ this _ time, he was going to have to say: “Being a fuckin’ idiot with some kid on the Kennedy Expressway.”

But we’d made it back, and Dean had been advised (read: told sternly) to stick to country roads and parking lots. At least until I had some more experience. That was fine with me. Back roads, I could handle. No problem. I had us going a steady forty-five in no time. Tears were not being shed. I didn’t feel like I was going to crap my pants from fear. The car was a piece of shit, but we were doing okay. There were even some country subdivisions to duck into -- do some parking and turn-abouts. 

By the third neighborhood, though, I could tell Dean was getting bored. He kept drumming a tune on his kneecap, eyes darting across the road.

“You can speed up,” he said once we were on a straight stretch.

“To what?” I asked.

“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” said Sam.

“But don’t be a wimp,” said Dean.”Live a little. You’re doin’ fine.”

_ Yeah, that wasn’t conflicting. Thanks, guys _ . I increased to about fifty. Dean barely managed to conceal his disappointment. I wasn’t sure if I should have felt annoyed or flattered. Probably flattered. He must have trusted me not to wrap us around the nearest telephone pole.

“Hey. Why don’t you turn into one of these neighborhoods up here and we can try parallel parking again?” Sam suggested. He was using his overly cheerful, “I’m here for  _ you _ ” voice. It was almost as grating as Dean’s poorly concealed impatience.

A crop of houses materialized in the distance. Sooner or later, I was going to hit a two lane highway, so it was probably a good idea to preemptively turn around. I sighed, though. Parallel parking was one of my biggest weaknesses. Dean and Sam made it seem so easy -- a lifetime of crunching the Impala into narrow city streets. Dean could probably do it in his sleep. I always ended up three feet from the curb and lopsided.

But practice makes perfect. There were two entryways to choose from. One approaching fast and the other farther down.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Who cares? Just turn left,” said Dean.

“Take the second,” said Sam.

“Okay… So, first or second?” I asked.

“Just make a left turn,” said Dean.

“But don’t rush yourself,” said Sam.

The first neighborhood was coming up quickly. The LeBaron’s engine gave a little groan when I tapped the brake. Brake, gas, brake. Do I take the first or second? If I took the first, then I wasn’t listening to Sam. But Dean kept jabbing his finger at the road like he expected something different. I appreciated their help -- wanted to please them and, more importantly, not die -- but this was turning into a “too many chefs in the kitchen” scenario.

“Pipe down, backseat driver,” Dean said to Sam. “You’re confusing the kid.”

“Okay, well, you’re being pushy,” Sam retorted.

“Guys…” I tried to interject.

“Pushy?  _ Pushy?” _ huffed Dean.

“Yeah. Pushy,” said Sam. 

Brake, gas, brake. We were down to a couple yards before I was going to have to make a decision.

“I’m no-- Hey! What’re you doin’? You’re givin’ me whiplash,” Dean complained. “Stop mashin’ on the brake. You don’t need to mash on the brake!”

“I’m not mashing on the brake!” I said. “I don’t know if I should turn here or there!”

“Well, turn now!” said Dean. We were just about to pass the first subdivision entrance. 

“What!”

“You gunna turn or not? Just turn!”

I probably should have gone past. I should have just gone straight past and turned at the next entrance. We were chugging along and there was no way, under normal circumstances, anyone would have attempted that turn for anything other than cheap thrills. But Dean was rigid and demanding in the passenger seat, and Sam was making placating noises in my ear, so ( _ god help me _ ) I just did what I was told.

I turned. The LeBaron complained when I slammed on the brakes -- tires squealing, engine straining, rust shedding off onto the packed gravel below. Sam hit the end of his seat belt with a tiny “oof.” There was just enough time for Dean to slap his hand against the dashboard before I jerked the steering wheel, throwing him sideways. I wasn’t even aware I’d been making a sound -- some kind of weird, high-pitched keening -- until the car skittered and slid its way past the first stop sign and up to the curb. It was a wild, reckless kind of maneuver. A rollercoaster on four wheels.

Maybe just two wheels for a second there.

So much for a leisurely mid-day drive. Adrenaline powered through my veins as I brought the car to a complete stand still. And then, just to be extra safe, I turned it off. The LeBaron sighed, as if it were happy to still be in one piece, too. I’d have sighed along with it if my heart hadn’t taken up residence in my throat. No one said anything for a moment. We were all still too busy buffering the experience.

“That was--” I began once I could breath.

“AWESOME!” Dean whooped. His hands slapped the dashboard again -- excited and vitalized. “WHOO! Yeah, baby! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

In the backseat, Sam had started to laugh. He laughed so hard --  either at Dean’s overzealous reaction or my stunt driving (it was hard to tell) -- he had to rest his big, shaggy head on the back of the passenger seat. I volleyed between them, open-mouthed and kind of irate. 

“Are you laughing at me? Stop laughing at me!” I snapped. “I thought we were gunna be roadkill!”

“Jesus Christ! You could have just taken the second one,” Sam said, wiping at his face. 

“Dean didn’t want me to!” I argued.

“ _ Dean _ didn’t care. I was sayin’ take the first one you wanted to,” said Dean. “But that was fun! That was awesome!”

“No it _ wasn’t _ !” I insisted. 

“Felt like I was on a ride at Disney World! Let’s do it again!” said Dean. He rubbed his hands together, conspiring. 

“LET’S NOT.”

“Speed up this time. I wanna catch some air!”

“How about we just start with turnin’ the car back on,” said Sam diplomatically.

Needless to say, Dean did not get his second carnival ride and I got out of parallel parking. I drove us home well under the speed limit and white knuckling it all the way. The only sound was the steady putt-putt-putt of the motor and the Winchesters intermittent laughter at my expense. I all but threw my timesheet at Sam when we finally tumbled into the hotel room -- hyped up and shaking, but still in one piece. 

The sheet was already half filled out. It seemed ridiculous to be dealing with such a mundane thing, considering the amount of rule breaking the Winchesters did. It fueled my anger. I glowered as Sam fished a pen out of his bag, his nose wrinkled with suppressed amusement. 

“What’re you so worked up about?” Dean asked. Near death experiences must have ranked pretty low on his stress scale. He’d already found the TV remote and opened a bag of Funyuns. “Did that really scare you so bad? Gotta change your undies or somethin’?”

“Shut up,” I grumbled. “Someone just sign the damn paper. I can’t believe you’re makin’ me do that anyway.”

“It’s a rite of passage. No one lied for me! No one gave me the easy way out,” said Dean. “And it took me twice as long as everyone else, because we jumped states. How about that? You got it pretty good, Kid.”

“You have like, five fake licenses,” I said. “So, don’t even pretend you do everything by the book.”

Dean just shrugged, nonplussed. “We’re doin’ you a favor. Be normal while ya’ can, Ace. It’s a short ride.”

To add emphasis to his brother’s sentiment, Sam slapped the newly adjusted timesheet against my shoulder. It crinkled when I grabbed at it -- fingers filled with all the violence I couldn’t mete out on Dean’s face. Sam seemed to be able to read my mind. His smile twitched -- wobbly and sympathetic. I wasn’t in the mood for the Dr. Phil routine, though. It felt like my eyebrows would freeze into a perpetual glare.

At least that’d make me look more intimidating on hunts. If Sam or Dean ever let me actually  _ go _ on hunts.

But then I glanced down at the paper. Then back up to Sam, who was calmly opening a bottle of water and booting up his computer. Down again. Up. Down. I had eight more supervised hours to go when we’d started. Now I was down to four. We had definitely  _ not _ been out for four hours. 

“No one lied for you, huh?” I said.

“Nope,” Dean replied. 

Sam eyed me over the top of his laptop. That wobbly smile tilted to the side, evolving into a cheshire grin. From where he was sitting, Dean couldn’t see it. I could, though. 

“Some things you have to do yourself,” said Sam -- deceptively passive.

“Exactly,” said Dean, licking funyun salt off his fingers. “See? Sammy gets it.”

Just for one shining second, Sam was every bit the mischievous younger sibling he was meant to be. It de-aged him -- showing the kid that still succumbed to prank wars and short-sheeting Dean’s bed.  We stared each other down while he paused to take a sip of water. Then, when Dean’s head was turned, Sam winked. 

“Okay. Sure. Sure. You’re right,” I said. A tiny bubble of laughter got stuck at the back of my throat. “Thanks for the initials, Sam. And, you know, the car, Dean. You know, since I didn’t say it before. It’s, uh… Thanks.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dean grunted. He was way too into his funyuns.

Sam’s expression melted down to its usual calm default. 

“No problem,” he murmured.

_ Yeah. Sam gets it. _ Four hours signed off by “my guardian” for the low, low price of one hour of practice and a major traffic violation. Dean would never check it. He liked the driving part, not the clerical part. I knew it. Sam knew it. Dean wasn’t being secretive about it. He’d left his brother to check off the last five outings, whether Sam had been there or not. And it would be Sam that would drive me to the DMV, file paperwork, wait in line, and nag at me to comb my hair when it was time to get my picture taken.

Now  _ that  _ was a favor.


End file.
